


Santa Claus: the Origins

by Glassdarkly



Series: The Santa Claus Chronicles [4]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Humor, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:12:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glassdarkly/pseuds/Glassdarkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before there was Santa Claus (who, let it be remembered, in the Buffyverse is actually a blood-thirsty disembowelling demon), there was Father Christmas. What would happen if they met?</p><p>Setting: London, a snowy Christmas Eve, 1882.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Santa Claus: the Origins

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Noel of Spike Livejournal comm in December 2013, a prequel to _The Santa Claus Chronicles_

"Be of good cheer, friend, it's Christmas!"

Spike paused with his pint glass half way to his mouth and turned around to see who had spoken. 

Such an exhortation was out of place in the _Fighting Cock_ , where good cheer was usually in short supply and no one was friends with anyone.

Not Spike's favourite pub by a long way for that reason. He preferred cheerier pubs, where happier drunks could generally be persuaded to let their new best pal Spike see them safe home to loving families; and were as a rule too befuddled to realise he meant his home and his loving family - or hateful, quarrelsome family, more like -not theirs. 

What's more, it being Christmas Eve, you might expect those happier drunks to be even easier pickings, on account of being happier - and drunker - than usual. 

But for some reason, Drusilla had insisted on coming to the _Fighting Cock_. 

So here they were, in the public bar, surrounded by misanthropes all staring gloomily into their glasses, and with the landlord - an ex-military type with a red face and beefy arms, who, as Spike well knew, didn't approve of women in pubs, not even in the snug - glaring daggers in their direction.

No doubt they all thought Drusilla was no better than she should be. 

Which, happily for Spike, was quite true.

The person urging his fellow drinkers to cheerfulness was standing, elbow on the bar, addressing one of the gloomy glass-contemplators, a sour-faced man in a battered derby hat, and with ferocious mutton-chop whiskers.

The exhorter was rather hairy himself. His long brown curls hung almost to his shoulders, gleaming chestnut in the sputtering gas light, and his full, bushy beard put Angelus's feeble attempts at similarly hirsute manliness to shame.

Spike smirked at the thought of the latest such attempt, and how briefly it had survived Darla's extreme displeasure, not to mention the cut-throat razor in the bathroom. 

Happy memories.

"Blast and bother Christmas," Mutton-Chops growled in response to the urging. "Got no time for it myself. I don't hold with the expense." 

Mutton-Chops eyed his interlocutor's clothes; a long, dark green coat, trimmed with fur, and a green felt hat crowned with holly leaves. 

"You from a music hall, are you? Don't hold with those either."

The bloke's outfit _was_ pretty theatrical, Spike thought. He turned to Drusilla, to remark as much, only to find her eyes riveted on the putative thespian, and her lips curved into a satisfied smile.

It was quite a change from her fretfulness earlier in the evening, which, according to Darla, had resembled a cat scratching at the door to be let out. This behaviour had, apparently, shredded the old folks' nerves so much, they'd finally thrown Drusilla - and Spike along with her- out of the house altogether.

No use protesting it was bloody cold outside, or that the grand mansion they were currently occupying had a full larder (as a consequence of having a full complement of live-in staff, including two in-between maids) and no one need bestir themselves from the fireside (and the late unlamented master of the house's fine collection of wines and spirits) to go hunting.

"Get her out of my sight!" Darla snapped at Spike, while Angelus loomed over her shoulder, smirking and puffing cigar smoke in their faces. "I swear, if she mentions Christmas presents one more time, I shall stake her myself." 

Spike scowled at the recollection. So much for Christmas being all about family.

He was brought out of his sour reminiscence by a sudden outburst from Drusilla. "Look, Spike!" she exclaimed, loud enough for everyone in the public bar to hear. "It's Father Christmas!" 

She bounced in her seat, clapping her hands like a gleeful child and setting her dark curls tumbling from their pins. "I've been a good girl this year, I have," she announced, again to the room at large. "All good girls deserve presents." 

At once, all eyes were turned on her, every one of them hostile.

"Good girl, my arse!" growled Mutton-Chops. "Can't a bloke have a drink in peace these days without some slut yammering in his ears? Bad enough the tails come in here at all, let alone loony ones like her."

This was too much. Spike banged his glass down on the table, and leapt to his feet, hands balled into fists. 

Yes, Drusilla might be no better than she should be, but it was no man's right save his to say so. 

And even then, only when she wanted him to.

"Watch your lip, mate," he snarled at Mutton-Chops, "or I'll teach you some bloody manners."

Mutton-Chops, who was a good head and shoulders taller than Spike, eyed him with disdain. 

"You her ponce, are you? Get that mad bitch out of here. No women allowed in the public bar." 

"Says who?" Spike shot back."There's no law against it." _Not that we'd care if there was_. "She can come in here if she wants, and I'll thrash the living daylights out of anyone who says different." 

_Then I'll take 'em round the back and rip their bloody throats out for good measure_.

Behind him, Drusilla had burst into peals of shrill laughter. She was drumming her feet on the wooden floor too, her hobnailed boots making quite a racket. 

"Christmas is turning from green to re-ed!" she sing-songed. "There'll be entrails enough for everyone!"

Mutton-Chops and his fellow patrons had been joined in their glaring by the landlord, whose face was black as a thundercloud.

" _I'm_ the law in here," he barked, at Spike. "You got no business bringing lunatic whores into a respectable establishment. I want you out, the pair of you."

Any minute now, he was going to come out from behind the bar and try to throw them out. Mutton-Chops, meanwhile, was already taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves. The air bristled with sullen bad temper.

Spike grinned and rolled his shoulders, cheered by the prospect of a decent bout of fisticuffs. Maybe there was some fun to be had in this dreary place after all. 

But then, the strange-looking fellow in green had put himself between Spike and the outraged patrons.

"Oh come," he boomed, in jocular tones, which seemed to echo somehow, as if they were standing in a far grander space than the _Fighting Cock_ , "no fighting, one and all. It's the season of good will, remember?"

And just like that, a hush descended on the room, during which landlord and patrons stared at the stranger, open-mouthed, as if mesmerised. Meanwhile, the gas lamps flared brighter, giving the room a cheerful glow, while a pleasant aroma permeated the air, like scented logs burning in the grate, and plum-puddings boiling on the range.

Another scent underlay it, barely there at all but plain as plain to those with the nose for it. 

Spike flared his nostrils. _Magic!_

Consequently, it didn't surprise him much at all when Mutton-Chops clapped him on the back so hard he staggered a pace forward, and roared, "Allow me to buy you a drink, young sir - you and your lady friend both. Landlord, a gin and water for the lady!" 

The landlord, who was beaming like an idiot, responded, "Keep your money, sir. It's Christmas Eve, by gum. Drinks are on the house, everyone."

At once, the patrons had forgotten about Spike and Drusilla and how much they objected to them, and were crowded around the bar, accompanied by much backslapping and shouts of, "Merry Christmas to you, sir!" 

Spike frowned in annoyance. There went any hope of livening up a dull evening. Then a shadow fell over him and he realised the stranger in green was right in front of him, and frowning down from what suddenly seemed like a great height. 

Surely he hadn't been that tall before?

"Run along, sonny." The stranger's eyes were hard, despite his genial expression. "I came to this place to spread some much needed festive cheer, not to see murder done."

Spike hardly heard. He was too busy gazing up at the stranger in awe. Because there could be no doubt. 

"Bloody hell, Dru's right, isn't she? You really are Father Christmas."

The stranger folded his arms across his broad chest and nodded.

"I am indeed. And you're a vampire." He looked past Spike to where Drusilla still sat at their corner table."And so is the lady." He touched his hat to her. "Madam."

Drusilla rose to her feet, tossing stray curls off her forehead, and dropped him a little curtsey. Her black bombazine skirts pooled around her on the floor.

"I've been a good girl, I have," she sing-songed. "Ask Daddy if you don't believe me." She fluttered her thick black lashes, contriving to look innocent and very knowing, all at the same time. "All good girls deserve presents."

Father Christmas blinked. "Yes," he said, a little uncertainly. "I'm sure they do."

Just for a moment, the sounds of merriment coming from the bar faltered. But then Father Christmas sighed, and the sounds began again, louder than ever. 

"But I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else, my dear. I'm the spirit of Christmas - of festive cheer and good will to all men - not that low fellow with the presents."

When Drusilla stuck out her lower lip in displeasure, he gave her a consolatory smile. 

"Believe me, horrid fiend in human form you may be, but you're better off not meeting Santa Claus." He looked stern. "Now, be off with you."

Father Christmas's hand landed on Spike's shoulder, gripping with frightening strength. He began to frog-march him towards the door, beckoning for Drusilla to follow them. "Come along, young lady. These people are under my protection. There's nothing for you two in here."

Spike looked in the direction of the bar. There was quite a party going on now. Beer and spirits were flowing freely. Someone had struck up a Christmas carol on an old, out-of-tune piano. What's more, Mutton-Chops was heading their way, with a pint in one hand and a gin and water in the other.

"Thought I'd forgotten you, did you, lad?" he roared, so full of good cheer it was a wonder he didn't burst from it. "As if I'd do such a thing. Back in your seats, you and your young lady, and get these down you." 

Spike dug his heels into the floor, straining against Father Christmas's iron grip . "Can't we just have our drinks before we go?" he whined. "They're on the house."

The whine turned to a low growl when Mutton-Chops shooed Drusilla back to their table with a hard swat on the rear, which she must have felt even through her bustle. Drusilla giggled coquettishly, and shrieked with laughter when Mutton-Chops pinched her cheek for good measure. 

"Drink up, darlin'." Mutton-Chops thumped the full glasses down on the table, slopping their contents everywhere. "Could do with some colour in those pretty cheeks, you could."

He bowed to Drusilla, adding a ridiculous hand flourish when she simpered at him.

Bitch! Spike thought, furious.

"Listen," he snarled at Father Christmas, "either you at least let us finish these drinks, which we're bloody well owed, in my opinion, after the way those tossers spoke to us, or I come back here when you've buggered off and have that idiot's guts for garters - literally -for daring to lay a finger on my Dru. Your choice."

Father Christmas tightened his hold on Spike's shoulder, but, as Spike had expected - because no one could argue with a bloke dead set on avenging an affront to his lady's honour, could they, even if said lady had acted like a slut? - at last, he let go.

"After all," Father Christmas mused, "it's Christmas. Even for murderous, blood-sucking fiends." 

He beamed at Spike. "Finish your drink then, lad, and I'll escort you and the young lady home. That way, no one gets hurt. Not even you." 

Spike responded with a sullen growl, flopped back down onto the wooden bench next to Drusilla and gave her an wounded look.

"What'd you have to flirt with the bloke like that for, Dru? An' after he insulted you too. He called you a whore. Didn't you hear him?"

Drusilla sipped her gin and water. Her blue eyes, veiled and blank at the same time, gazed right through him.

"Don't fret, my little Spike. When it comes to entrails, you have to be patient."

"What?" Spike blinked at her, uncomprehending. He took a long swallow of his pint, then glared up at Father Christmas.

"Have a seat, then, or are you just gonna loom at us?"

Father Christmas, who'd been standing over them, like a guard on sentry duty, looked surprised, but then he pulled up a stool and sat down.

Even seated, he towered over both of them, exuding seasonal bonhomie in a way that struck Spike as quite sickening.

"So that's what you do, is it?" he sneered. "Wander about, waving your magic wand, or whatever? Making people enjoy Christmas whether they want to or not?"

Father Christmas nodded happily. "Yes, indeed. And have done so centuries without reckoning."

"So who's this other bloke, then?" Spike pursued. "This Santa Claus. The one you said we were better off not meeting?"

Father Christmas's face darkened, and yet again, the sounds of merry-making faltered - to the extent that when the piano player struck a particularly out-of-tune key, someone shouted, "Shut that bloody racket, can't you?"

Father Christmas winced, and seemed to make a conscious effort to resume his former geniality. At once, the laughter was back, louder even than before, if possible.

"You really don't know?" Father Christmas said, while all the time, Drusilla watched him avidly, with pale blue eyes that never blinked. 

Spike rolled his eyes. "Wouldn't ask if I did, would I?" 

Father Christmas drew a deep breath. "Very well, I'll explain. Though I must say, I thought everyone and his Aunt Bertha knew _that_ story."

"Yeah well," Spike growled, "don't have an Aunt Bertha, do I? Tell us."

*

"And so," Father Christmas declaimed, "the Demonic Congress of Worms drew to a close with the signing of the Treaty of Gl'garg by both the Lower Beings and the Monks of St Nicholas the Bloody-minded. Astonishing, don't you think, that they could manage to agree about anything?"

"Er...I s'pose." 

Spike's attention had wandered some time back, partly because he was trying to catch Mutton-Chops's eye and cadge another free drink, and partly because 1506 was a bloody long time ago-before even Darla's time- and he couldn't care less about what might have happened back then between a bunch of fusty old demons.

Drusilla, on the other hand, was listening intently. "I like worms," she said, unblinking eyes still pinning Father Christmas to the spot. "I like leeches too. And rats." She twitched her nose, like a rat sniffing. "Scritch-scratch-scritch, I smell entrails."

Father Christmas looked disconcerted by this _non-sequitur_. 

"Er...yes. Such creatures are all very well in their place, my dear, but nothing to do with the subject at hand, though I do understand your confusion. It helps, I believe, to recall the German pronunciation. 'Verms', not 'worms'."

When Drusilla did nothing but continue to stare, Father Christmas cleared his throat uneasily.

"To get back to the Treaty, one of its conditions was that the Clawed Demon - or Santa Claus, as he calls himself nowadays - who was a staunch ally of the abbot of the order of St Nicholas the Bloody-minded, be given the right, once a year on Christmas Eve, to disembowel all badly behaved children."

He shook his head in reproach. 

"Dreadful, don't you think? Dreadful! No wonder the monks were excommunicated shortly thereafter and the treaty declared null and void."

Drusilla's eyes had grown big as saucers. "Only once a year? Poor Santa Claus. He must get awful hungry in between."

Much to Spike's amusement, Father Christmas's face had begun to acquire a familiar look- one part suspicion that he was being made fun of, two parts sheer bewilderment. 

Drusilla had that effect on people.

"I understand that you're a vampire, my dear," Father Christmas said, with laboured patience, "and therefore judge these matters to a different standard, but really, this clawed fellow is very disagreeable. And a liar. Why, he already has half of Christendom believing him to be a kindly old gentleman who gives children presents at Christmas. In fact, since you asked me for a present, you seem to have fallen for his lies yourself."

At last, Drusilla blinked- just once, catlike and serene. "I like presents," she purred, "almost as much as I like entrails." Her gaze turned to Spike. "If I wanted entrails for Christmas, would you get them for me, Spike? Would you?"

Over by the bar, the patrons had broken into a tuneless rendition of _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ , which was making Spike's sensitive ears hurt. He tipped back his head and drained the last of his pint. 

"'Course I would, princess."

Not that this Father Christmas tosser was going to let them have any fun here, he thought. Best to cut their losses and try somewhere else.

If they hurried, the _Countess's Arms_ \- a far more welcoming establishment altogether - might still be open for business.

He got to his feet. "Let's go, Dru. We know when we're not wanted."

Drusilla's eyes met his, secret and smug.

"My little boy has to be patient. The clock's not struck one yet." Her attention slid back to Father Christmas, intent as a snake. "Pray, sir, continue." 

Suddenly, she sounded quite lucid.

 _That_ got Spike's attention. He sat down again. "Yeah, Mr Father Christmas, sir. Pray do."

Father Christmas frowned.

"There's nothing more to tell. This Santa Claus fellow spreads his lies and deceit, and I do my best to countermand them by reminding people - especially in places such as this, where good cheer is sadly lacking- of the true spirit of Christmas, which lies in giving, not receiving. In time, I shall prevail."

"Or he will." Spike traced his finger around the wet circle his glass had left on the table. "You want my opinion, mate, my money's on the bloke with the claws."

Father Christmas's frown bit deeper. Meanwhile, there was a distinct lull in the festivities. 

"I'm not sure I do want your opinion."

Spike shrugged, as if to say, _well, you're going to get it anyway_. 

"What I mean is, if it's a choice between getting presents at Christmas or not, most people'll go with getting presents, won't they? Specially kids - greedy little buggers."

He leaned back in his chair, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, expanding on his theme.

"Way I see it, 's a self-fulfilling prophecy, ain't it? If kids think they're gonna get presents at Christmas and don't, they'll whine until they do get 'em -either presents, or a clip round the ear. But a clip round the ear'll make 'em resentful, see, and more likely to misbehave." _And if you don't believe me, just ask Angelus_. "So in the long run, this Santa Claus bloke can't lose." 

He leaned forward across the table, finger stabbing in Father Christmas's direction. "Face it, mate. He's already beaten you fair and square. You're done for."

Father Christmas's frown had grown quite thunderous. For a moment, it looked like he might try giving Spike something a lot more painful than a clip round the ear. But then one big hand landed back on Spike's shoulder, hauling him to his feet. Meanwhile, the other hand reached out and grabbed Drusilla by the wrist.

Spike didn't much care to see Drusilla manhandled, not even by the spirit of Christmas.

"'Oy!" he shouted. "Let go of her, you big oaf!"

Father Christmas shook his head. "Not until you're back where you came from, you pair of murderous fiends. Landlord!" His jovial voice boomed so loudly in the enclosed space, it set Spike's ears ringing. "Lock the door behind us, and if you value your lives, don't let these two back in. And a Merry Christmas to you, one and all."

"Merry Christmas!" was the cheerful response, and no one, not even Mutton-Chops with his wandering hands, seemed the least bothered that a lady was being abducted against her will, despite Spike's best attempts to bring it to their attention. They were all too busy slapping each other on the back, laughing, and singing Christmas carols.

"They can't hear or see you anymore," Father Christmas growled at Spike. "So you might as well stop struggling. Now, out. You. Go."

When the door swung open, a blast of wintry air hit them in the face. Just to add to the misery of the evening, it was snowing. Myriads of pure white flakes swirled their way to the ground, hissing and dying when they hit the street lamps. The pavements were already caked in snow, and an icy wind whipped down the empty street.

But the weather didn't seem to bother Father Christmas. As the bolts shot home behind them, he set off down the street, dragging Spike and Drusilla with him. Their boots skidded on the icy pavement, but Father Christmas forced them onwards. Each gas lamp he passed flared up, brighter and more cheerful, and from inside every house, came shouts of, "Merry Christmas!" and the sounds of music and laughter.

Outside, it seemed that nothing was stirring except themselves. Not even a mouse.

"Where is your lair?" Father Christmas boomed, as they slipped and slid their way through the blizzard. "I will take you to it. You will go in. Then, you will not leave it again until Christmas is over."

Bloody cheek, Spike thought. He struggled harder - not least because the thought of being deposited on the doorstep by this Father Christmas tosser -in full view of Angelus's mocking gaze, no doubt -didn't appeal much at all. 

But in vain. Father Christmas was so much stronger, Spike's best effort barely gave him pause. 

Spike opened his mouth to give the bloke an earful he wouldn't forget at the very least, but Drusilla, trotting along meekly on Father Christmas's other side, addressed him first. 

"Please, Mr Father Christmas, sir, we can't go home yet. Not until I've had my present."

"I already told you I don't hand out presents," Father Christmas snapped, sounding not nearly so jovial now. "Hurry up, girl."

Just at that moment, the wind picked up even more, sending little whirlwinds of snow dancing along the pavements. Drusilla laughed, eerie and gleeful at the same time, and along with her laughter, another sound reached Spike's ears.

It was like harness bells jingling. 

He craned his head behind them, expecting to see a hansom cab bowling along the road. But there was nothing, except...

Spike frowned. For a moment, he thought he'd seen a shape - a coach and horses, or something like - flying through the air between the roofs of two nearby houses.

But it couldn't have been, could it?

His question was answered a moment later, when something metallic and sharp swooped past so close to his head that it almost took it clean off. The blast of wind that accompanied it knocked him from his feet, tearing him from Father Christmas's grip, and sending him sprawling on the snowy ground. 

At the same time, there was a yell of surprise from Father Christmas, and a shriek of laughter from Drusilla.

Spike raised his head, to see a big black shape careering upwards into the sky with Father Christmas dangling from it like a squirming ragdoll. Drusilla's hand was still gripped tight in his. As Spike gained his feet, her snow-caked boots were already on a level with his head and rising fast, giving him a grandstand view of her kicking legs in their frilly pantaloons amidst a froth of petticoats. 

It was a fine sight, and Spike had barely presence of mind to reach out and grab her trailing skirt before she was out of his reach altogether. There was the sound of fabric tearing - there went Drusilla's best outdoor dress -Darla would be livid - a sort of angry shout from Father Christmas - "You! I might have known!" -then Drusilla fell on top of Spike. This time, they both went sprawling.

"What the bloody hell is goin' on?" Spike climbed to his feet again, quick as he could, and helped Drusilla up. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

"My present!" she squealed, bouncing on her toes. "My present's coming! My present! My present!"

"What're you on about, Dru?" Spike brushed snow off himself, and then off her. He glared around the deserted street. What had just happened, and where had that annoying Father Christmas bloke gone?

A moment later, he had his answer.

"Duck!" Spike yelled, and flung himself full-length back down in the snow, with Drusilla beneath him, as the huge black shape zoomed low overhead again.

This time, Spike got a good enough look to see the shape was in fact a sleigh - a flimsy-looking thing, all gold and fancy scrollwork, but with lethally sharp metal runners on each side. It was drawn by a team of, not horses, but some sort of shaggy-looking deer with huge antlers and feet. Sparks streamed from their nostrils as they thundered past, running on empty air as easily as other deer - the non-supernatural kind - might run on the earth.

No one seemed to be controlling them. Instead, the sleigh lurched from one side to another, threatening to tip over altogether, as two large men, both dressed in holly green, struggled with each other on the driver's seat. One of them was Father Christmas. The other could have been his twin, save that his hair was black, not chestnut, and his bearded face had a mean look, quite at odds with Father Christmas's jovial expression.

Not that this was much in evidence now. 

The two men - or demons, or whatever they were - had their hands around each other's necks, each trying to throttle the other. As the sleigh swooped by, Spike saw Father Christmas falter and let go of his opponent. His mouth opened wide, gasping and choking. He clutched his own throat with both hands. Blood welled out through his clasped fingers.

The mean-looking fellow laughed in triumph and stood back to survey his handiwork. He flexed his fingers, which were tipped with an impressive set of curved yellow claws, now coated in blood.

"There's only room for one of us in this dimension," Santa Claus roared, in Father Christmas's purpling face. "You lose, you old has-been. I win."

Then the sleigh shot straight up into the sky in a thunder of hooves and jangling harness. Just as it disappeared over the nearest rooftop, Spike saw something parcel-shaped fall from it, but he was too busy laughing to pay close attention. 

"S'pose that was Santa Claus," he said, when he could catch his breath. "Told you he'd win, didn't I, Dru? Dru?"

But Drusilla was running across the snow-covered road, careless of her torn, sodden skirts, to gather the fallen parcel into her arms. Spike heard her squeal with delight.

"My Christmas present! It's come at last! Oh, thank you, Spike! Thank you!"

She marched back towards him, smiling in smug triumph, and clutching the large brown paper parcel to her breast. When she reached his side, Spike poked it dubiously with his finger. It gave under his touch, with a gelatinous gurgle.

He raised his eyebrow at Drusilla. "Let me guess. Entrails?"

Drusilla nodded happily. Hugging the parcel to her, she twirled around and around on the spot, torn skirts flying, faster and faster, until, with a shriek of laughter, she reeled dizzily into Spike's arms.

"It's just what I always wanted," she cooed, as if Spike had arranged the whole thing. 

Then her small hand in its wet leather glove grabbed Spike's head by the hair, tugging him close. Swift as a serpent, her cold tongue darted between his lips.

Spike kissed her back, with interest. The parcel fell to the ground at their feet, unheeded. 

But just as things were hotting up nicely, and Spike was beginning to think they would have to make a mad dash for home, else find the nearest dark alley, Drusilla pushed him away. Bending, she picked up the parcel and held it close in her arms again.

"Now, now, naughty boy." She wagged her finger at Spike. "What did Father Christmas say?"

Spike reached for her again. "Don't bloody care. Come 'ere!"

But Dru evaded him, dancing back just out of reach. 

"Father Christmas _said_ ," she intoned, like a child reciting a lesson by rote, "that Christmas is a time for giving, not receiving." 

Spike adjusted the front of his trousers, which were suddenly a little tight.

"Can think of something you can give me."

Drusilla gave him a reproving look. "All in good time, bad, wicked boy. First, I have to give Daddy and Grandmamma _their_ Christmas present."

"Oh yes?" Spike sighed, inwardly. Did this mean they had to go hunting after all? "What're you gonna give them?" 

Besides, he thought, what _did_ you give a pair of arrogant old fogies who already had everything, including two in-between maids?

Drusilla indicated the parcel.

"Why, this, of course. Do you think they'll like it? Do you?"

Somehow or other, Spike managed to keep a serious expression on his face, as he thought of Darla's likely reaction.

"'Course they will, Dru. They'll bloody love it." 

He grabbed Drusilla's hand in his and began to run."Come on, pet. Let's give it to them right this minute." 

As they ran, Spike looked up into the sky, empty now except for the whirling snow and the sound of midnight church bells merrily pealing out for Christmas.

"Merry Christmas, Santa Claus, you old tosser," he shouted. "And thanks. Best bloody Christmas ever."


End file.
